Wounds
by ECSutter
Summary: Nothing is as it seems. A post-ep for 7x14, with minor spoilers for the 7x15 preview. Work in progress. The story is taking a somewhat darker turn. Rating increased for mature themes, but not likely what you think.
1. Chapter 1

Kate Beckett is broken.

Castle studies his wife's face, framed on the blue-white pillow by the uneven, mahogany spikes that remain of her shorn curls. His vision blurs, and he looks at her hands, focusing on the curve of each manicured fingernail until he can swallow down the tears.

Her body is battered, abused in every way a person, and a woman, could be. Three days with those monsters. His heart hiccoughs over a run of uneven beats. He inhales, cautiously lets out the air, waiting for the adrenaline to retreat.

The skin of her face swells more with every hour, fissured and red, jaw mottled purple, lips ballooned and weeping from jagged splits in the shiny, stretched flesh.

After almost a day, her eyes remain closed, her story, a mystery.

Castle's breath catches at the thought of knowing. Scans and doctors have told him enough, maybe too much.

When Esposito taps on the door to her hospital room and motions for Castle to join him in the hall, his grip will not release. All five fingers are numb from the past seventeen hours spent clutching that pale, limp remnant of his wife. Her left arm and hand, with his platinum band circling one finger, appear untouched, while the rest of her is in ruins.

The burn of blood returning to those digits sends him back to the only time Castle has let go of her hand since he found her in that hole. That hour replays behind his eyelids. The doctors need to examine her, run tests, so he stumbles into the nearest restroom and empties his stomach inside the first stall. He heaves into that toilet until his shaking arms can no longer hold him upright, then he sinks to the grimy tile floor, feeling only the tepid linoleum under his cheek and the cool stripes of tears painting sideways over the bridge of his nose. Eventually he washes his face, clenches his jaw, and returns to her.

That is the last time he has pictured the _how_. There is no time to entertain disgust, or the icy tendrils of self-loathing _because he should have seen it coming_. There is only the woman he loves, and finding ways to help her get through this, survive, once she finally wakes.

But now, he uses his other hand to pry his fingers from hers, stands on feet that spark with the pins and needles of disuse, and leaves his eyes on the motionless form under the crisp white sheet.

Esposito interrupts his view when he pulls the door shut, forcing Castle to blink, stretch the aching cords of muscle in his neck to face the stone-faced detective.

Licking thick, parched lips, Castle clears his throat and speaks his first words in hours.

"Did you find them?"

The syllables come out cracked and gruff, disjointed, like the rest of him, draw an answering shake of Esposito's head.

"No."

That single syllable pokes another hole in the thin shell of his control. Castle's eyes flick to the window, stare at the closed blinds as if to conjure her through them. His lids scrape shut on the image of her, small and weak in that bed. His insides clench in shame; he cannot even picture her as she is now without a sinking weight filling his chest.

Kate is his light.

Fisting his hands, his nails dig into the meat of his palms, and he opens his eyes.

"Then why am I out here?"

The other man straightens, leaning in until Castle can see his own distorted reflection in his eyes.

"It's not her."

Something inside Castle splits open.

"What?"

Esposito's eyelid twitches before he rasps out confirmation.

"The woman in that bed is not Kate Beckett."

* * *

Find me on tumblr: ECSutter


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2:**

"We had Beckett's prints from the basement, but Gates wanted us to run hers," Esposito tips his head in the direction of Not-Kate's room, "just to be sure."

Relief is the first shaky wave that washes over him, the flat of his palm catching the brunt of his weight as he half collapses into the Formica counter at his hip. But in its wake is a bloom of shame that turns his stomach sour.

How can he stand here and feel happy about another woman's suffering, just because that woman is not Kate Beckett?

And then it hits him.

Kate is still with Tyson.

When his eyes flash up to Esposito, the detective has rocked forward, weight on the balls of his feet, brows raised, waiting silently as Castle's brain makes the connections.

"Where are they? What have you found since yesterday?"

Esposito is off like a shot down the hall, Castle hot on his heels, as he answers.

"Not much, but the mother disappeared."

Despite his lack of sleep, the wheels are starting to turn.

"She was in on it."

"Or Nieman and Tyson took her, too. Either way, it means we can't trust that DNA. Tooth could have been planted."

They reach the nearest exit, and the detective pushes through into the night, the darkness taking Castle by surprise after so much time inside the hospital.

"Where are we going?"

Castle's coat disappeared sometime before they had arrived at the hospital; he wishes for it now as the wind whips in bursts down the valley of buildings lining the avenue.

_She might be shivering in an alley right now._

"Upstate. Got a hit on our BOLO for the mom's car. Hurry up. Ryan's already on his way with Gates."

He wakes with his face smashed against the window, condensation flaring out in a frosted arc.

"'Bout time, Sleeping Beauty."

They are pulling into a truck stop alongside an SUV with a steady plume of exhaust exiting its tailpipe.

State police cruisers have joined the party, wherever this is, and Esposito chimes in on his headset.

"Yo. What do you mean, slow? We got here with 3 minutes to spare. I'm gonna suit up."

Turning to Castle, the detective's jaw clenches.

"You don't have to do this. After last time-"

"You got an extra vest?"

There is absolutely zero chance that Richard Castle will stay in this car.

Fifteen minutes later, his heart pounds so loudly he almost misses Esposito's count as he and Ryan lead the team through the whitewashed front door of the the two-story red brick farmhouse.

He brings up the rear, falling in line behind Gates at her insistence. He hears each pair of officers, "Clear," echo through the first floor rooms. Ryan and Esposito have disappeared, but Castle spots the basement stairs and makes a beeline, shoving down the image of what he found the last time he descended dark stairs.

The boys have had the same idea, but they have seconds on him and are already calling their own signal up to Gates.

As the space comes into view, with its red velvet 1970's couch and mismatched washer and dryer, the sick churning in his gut calms slightly. No sign of foul play. But also, no sign of Kate.

Ryan meets him on the stairs, mouth tight and eyes wide with the same glassy look he has given Castle since Tyson reappeared. The other man's shoulders stoop as he climbs the stairs with heavy, flat footfalls past Castle.

Esposito motions for Castle to follow his partner, and just as he turns to do so, a shout rings out from somewhere upstairs.

By the time he reaches the doorway on the second floor, officers are spilling out into the hall. Panting from his sprint up the stairs, he yells her name and shoves through the bodies in his way.

"Kate!"

He gets no answer, but pushes on, losing his balance as he bursts through and catching himself on the arm of one of the state police just inside the door.

His eyes immediately snap up to the head of the large four-poster bed.

And there she is.

Kate.

Whole.

Perfect.

Face unmarred, skin pristine against the deep blue nest of pillows.

"Kate?"

Her eyes are closed, features serene, unmoving.

Gates has already reached her, and Castle's voice breaks as he asks, begs to hear-

"Is she-?"

"Alive. She has a pulse."

He is at her side, fingers lacing with hers, taking in every detail that shows above the thick down comforter tucked under her arms. Even though he can find no scratch, the impostor's images looms, and he pulls down the blanket, searching for other injuries. Someone has dressed her in an old-fashioned white cotton nightgown, high necked and long sleeved. Her hair haloed in bronze waves across the pillowcase, Kate is a porcelain doll perched in this antique bed, an angelic Sleeping Beauty.

Paramedics appear, assess, still he holds on to that warm, little hand.

He ignores their buzzing requests to let go, move back, let them work, until Gates' ice pick voice pops the bubble that has surrounded him and Kate.

"Mr. Castle, if you do not step away we cannot help your wife."

The muscles of his hand clench harder, then release. Somehow he stands, keeps his feet under him, and backs away, but his eyes remain fixed on her face. Something flutters in his chest, too early to name, but it nearly makes him smile.

More voices muffled by the buzzing in his ears announce their findings.

"Heart rate 94, respirations 16, BP 110 over 68. Tape and puncture marks right antecubital. Pupils-"

One EMT has just placed the pads of his thumb and forefinger over her eyelids, tiny flashlight in his other hand poised at her temple, when Kate's eyes scrunch tight. Her head presses back into the pillow, turning side to side, shaking off the EMT.

Castle steps closer on trembling legs, tries to speak only to find that first he must breathe. On his shaky exhale, he breathes her name.

"Kate?"

Beckett's eyes fly open, roving and wild, then she opens her mouth, and she screams.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

It takes his hands on her shoulders to quiet her, his voice in her ear to relax the straining, struggling limbs back into the bed.

"Hey, hey, Kate, it's me. You're safe. We're just trying to help you."

On the fifth version of those words, she stops thrashing and looks him in the eye.

"Can you lie down and let the EMT's look at you?"

Kate nods, eyelids drooping, and slumps back into the pillows.

For the next hour, as long as his hand is in hers, Kate does what they ask.

At Presbyterian, the Emergency Room doctors agree with the paramedics: she is under the influence of drugs, most likely anaesthetic agents in addition to the cocktail of more common sedatives that can be picked up in a tox screen.

Otherwise, the team pronounces her in perfect health.

Because she has been in and out of sleep ever since her first awakening in the farmhouse, the doctors decide to keep her for the rest of the night.

When Castle rises from an eerily familiar vinyl chair to use the bathroom at four A. M., he finds the stairwell at the end of the ward and walks up two flights.

Peeking in the window of the room in which he had spent the last miserable sleepless night, he sees three heads resting uncomfortably on the bed beside the battered woman. A weight slides off his heart to know someone is there for her, whomever she may be, when she finally wakes. No one deserves to go through that horror alone.

The doctors come through for rounds just after sunrise, and Kate jolts awake at the touch of a stethoscope on her chest.

"Good morning, Ms. Beckett. How are you feeling today?"

None of them has had a chance to question her thoroughly about what happened; up until now, she has been drowsy to the point of falling asleep mid-phrase.

"Better. Fine. Awake, I think. Could I have some coffee?"

At least some things never change, though he doubts what the hospital kitchen brews up will meet her standards.

"Sure. I think the menu for breakfast is on your bedside table. You can have whatever you want. Are you having any pain? Is anything bothering you this morning, now that you're more awake?"

Kate's eyes fall to the sheet, where her fingers are twisting.

"No. I'm fine. Ready to get out of here."

"That's good. All of our tests have come back normal, except for the drugs we found in your bloodstream. But by now most of those have been flushed out. As long as you keep your breakfast down, I don't see any reason to keep you here. I can write the paperwork for discharge around 10."

She looks up at the 20-something blonde woman with the navy blue stethoscope looped around her neck, and presses her lips together into a curve that resembles a smile.

"Thank you."

The doctor beams down at her, reaching out her right hand to Kate.

"I'm so glad you're feeling better. You gave everyone a scare last night. If there's anything else you need, just call your nurse, and she will get me."

Kate clasps it and shakes, then the doctor turns to Castle and does the same.

Not ten seconds after the group has quietly shut the door, Kate pins her gaze on him.

"Do you think you could find us some real coffee?"

Her eyes roll, mouth again curved up, but something about her tone sounds flat.

"Sure. There's a coffee place in the lobby."

Castle leans in to press a kiss to her temple.

"I'll be right back."

It turns out every other patient in Presbyterian has had the same breakfast request. It takes nearly an hour to get through the line, and by the time he returns, Kate has a plate of scrambled eggs and toast in front of her, along with a plastic mug of something resembling coffee.

"Took you long enough."

Kate slides the rolling table a few inches aside and reaches for the steaming cup in his hand.

"Sorry - you would think the coffee shop in the lobby of one of the largest hospitals in Manhattan would have more than one barista working the morning shift on a weekday."

Kate clutches at the steaming drink, tipping it to her lips with closed eyes and a low groan.

A soft wrap on the closed door snaps her out of her blissed out coffee stupor, eyes going wide at the curly-haired doctor who pokes her head in.

"Kate, I'll be back in in a few minutes to give you some options, then you can head home."

"Thank you."

The face is new to Castle, and it disappears as quickly as it came. Kate dips her face, carefully blank, back to her coffee.

"Who was that?"

She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and takes a long drag of caffeine. Drawing the cup in to her chest, she grips it with both hands, breathes in slowly, and finds his eyes.

"I need to tell you something."

Castle sits, setting his own cup on the table beside her untouched breakfast, the idea of putting something in his stomach suddenly unappealing.

"Did you remember more? More than the needle on the street and being tied down in that room?"

Her shoulders curve in, hollowing out her collarbones, and she pulls her knees in close.

"No, no, it's all still blank." Kate turns to face the window, the light through the blinds silhouetting the muscles and tendons of her throat as she lifts the coffee and swallows again. "I felt something this morning. I was finally clear enough to realize."

The coffee turns to acid in his stomach. Castle leans in, puts himself in line with her peripheral vision, but he keeps his hands at the edge of the mattress.

"The doctors all said they couldn't find any injuries other than the needle marks - no sign Nieman…"

The words get stuck as the image of that other woman clog his brain. Kate finishes for him.

"Cut me." Her eyes finally slide over to his for an instant. "I know. But when Dr. Eastman came in and asked, I couldn't pretend I didn't feel it anymore."

Ice creeps up his spine, setting off goosebumps over every vertebra, making his breath hitch on his inhale.

"Feel what, Kate?"

Her lips press together as the smooth line of her brow furrows.

"That doctor just now was a gynecologist. Castle, I called the nurse and asked them to do a kit."


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4:**

**Author's note: I am increasing the rating on this chapter, not because of sexual content, but because of mature themes. If you choose not to keep reading, I understand. Neiman is sicker and more twisted in my version than the network would ever make her. The idea for this hit me back when we met Neiman the first time, and I haven't been able to shake it, so I decided now or never and wrote it. Not everyone's cup of tea. This will be a couple more chapters at most.**

Castle knows exactly what "a kit" means - collecting evidence of sexual assault. He finds himself back exactly where he had been only a day before with the Kate look-alike, so beaten and abused, his own chest physically aching for what he fears has happened to his wife.

That monster leaves her looking immaculate, so all the scars stay on the inside. Just like a plastic surgeon.

"Dr. Gregg came right in and started, but almost immediately she said it wasn't what I thought. She went through most of the steps, said there was no evidence of-"

A tap on the door interrupts her mid-sentence, and Dr. Gregg returns with a handful of printed pages.

"Kate, is it all right if I come in? It might be best if we speak in private."

Kate's coffee joins his on the table, and she smiles weakly at the white-coat-clad woman.

"Please, come in, and this is my husband, Richard Castle. I want him here for this."

Castle vacates the single chair, reaching out to shake hands as he gestures for the doctor to take his spot at the bedside. Dr. Gregg give his hand a firm grip, her hand warm against his, then sits and turns to Kate.

"OK, so during the exam I told you I saw no evidence of sexual assault, no obvious sources of DNA evidence. I did a preliminary look at the samples I gathered, and there were no suspicious bodily fluids. Of course, the actual forensic evaluation will be much more thorough, and I can't say anything for certain based on just my review."

Kate plants her hands on the mattress and scoots up, jaw tightening slightly as she settles herself higher in the bed. Castle has kept silent, despite his growing list of questions, but now one slips out unintentionally as he rounds the end of the bed to take a seat on the mattress near Kate's hip.

"What about her symptoms, the reason she asked to have the kit done in the first place?"

The woman's eyes narrow slightly as she nods.

"That's what I was getting to. Right away, when I started the exam, I found the source of her discomfort. Detective, you said that you were held by two people, one of whom was a surgeon. By any chance, was that person a cosmetic surgeon?"

Now Kate's eyes narrow, but her voice remains steadier than his own jittering heart as she answers.

"Yes. Dr. Kelly Nieman. She's a fairly well-known plastic surgeon, or she was until our earlier investigation linked her with a serial killer. But what does that have to do with anything?"

Dr. Gregg nods, keeping full focus on her patient. Castle lays his hand beside his wife's on the bed, and she links her fingers with his, squeezing tight.

"As an OB/GYN, I've seen this a few times, but never so soon afterward, that was why I stopped short of the full exam. You've had surgery, Kate. It's the incisions and stitches that you're feeling."

Kate's eyebrows shoot up, he imagines in a mirror image of his own. Nieman is sicker than even he has given her credit for.

His wife's voice is so soft it is almost unrecognizable.

"What kind of surgery?"

"I brought you some literature with details of the procedure, but it's often referred to as hymenoplasty, or the slang term, which I chose not to use, re-virgination."

Castle grimaces, swipes his hand across his mouth to conceal it.

He has heard of this: wealthy socialites having "work done" as a strange sort of gift to their husbands for a big anniversary, women of certain religious or cultural backgrounds going under the knife before marriage.

Their silence drags on a beat too long, and the doctor takes that as a sign to continue.

"Some cosmetic surgeons specialize in this area. They take nearby tissue and rearrange and reattach it, so that it simulates what the hymen may look like in a woman who has never had penetrative intercourse. The difficult part to justify, in my personal opinion, is that this mythical 'hymen' doesn't look the same in any two individuals, can never be seen at all in many, and certainly has nothing to do with the social construct of 'virginity.'"

The physician's voice rises as she speaks, one hand fisting tightly around her pen, her thumb clicking the button on its end twice when she pauses for breath. Heat is blooming across Castle's cheeks, and the space between his palm and Kate's is slick with perspiration.

"When I stepped out earlier, I called a surgeon who refers patients to me to find out a few details. There are varying levels of complexity of the technique, some create a visual illusion, while others give that tissue a nerve and blood supply."

He breathes in slowly through his nose, lets the air fill his lungs to capacity. Dr. Gregg laces her fingers between her knees, leaning forward on her elbows.

"The most elaborate version provides a 'convincing' display of losing one's virginity with the next episode of intercourse. That can be important in some cultural contexts, so says my colleague. It's obviously not my place to judge - a woman can do whatever she wishes with her body. But against the patient's will? This is assault, no question about it."

The last time Kate had been taken from him, he had asked for details. It had been weeks before he finally them, in the aftermath of a flashback from Kate's PTSD. She had described the icy water, gritty and acrid with algae and silt, filling her mouth and nose with needles of bitter cold, the haze that had eventually shut down her body and brain. After hearing it, his nightmares of her dying in that basement with him watching, frozen in place, unable to help her, had woken them both for weeks. He still has one occasionally, though her PTSD has calmed. Despite all that pain, the instinct to know bubbles over now.

"Can you tell which version of this was done to Kate?"

"As I said, I'm no expert, but this looks extreme. Knowing the circumstances, I'd guess it was done to make future intercourse as unpleasant as possible."

His heart thuds out of rhythm, as Kate's hand clamps down hard on his fingers, her jaw muscles working before she opens her mouth to speak. Her tone is flat, deadly calm.

"Can it be reversed?"

For the first time since she has sat down, Dr. Gregg smiles.

"Yes, with a relatively simple procedure in my office. We can use local anesthetic, and there would be minimal discomfort or bleeding, probably no stitches required."

Kate's back straightens at the word "stitches."

"But the area has to heal first, otherwise there could be long-term complications, scarring. That will mean six weeks of complete pelvic rest. I would be happy to see you after that to reverse it."

His wife's nostrils flare, lips pressed tight just before she asks, "Earlier you said something about alternatives? What else could be done besides another procedure?"

Kate pauses just before that last word. Then she releases his hand to shift in the bed again, wrapping both arms around her knees.

"Your other option is to let everything heal and then attempt intercourse. Maybe I'm over-estimating the degree of discomfort you will feel. Either way, you have the next six weeks to make your decision."

Dr. Gregg reaches for her pile of papers and lays them out on the bed in front of Kate.

"These are instructions on caring for the incisions, and your nurse will go through them with you when you leave. For what it's worth, everything looks very expertly done. I don't anticipate any medical complications at this point."

Kate peers down at the reading material, still curled up with knees tucked against her chest. Dr. Gregg leans in, places her hand over the top paper, draws her patient's eyes up to her own.

"Kate, this is a lot to handle. The physical recovery is only going to be a small part. Do you have a therapist you could speak with, or can I call one to come speak with you here?"

Kate blinks, shaking her head slightly.

"No, I mean, yes, I have a therapist; you don't need to call one. I'll make an appointment."

Castle's shoulders unclench slightly. Burke will know how to help.

"Any questions? I'm leaving my contact information; you can call me any time."

"No… No, I can't think of anything. Thank you."

The doctor leaves, the pile of papers and her card stacked neatly on Kate's table.

Neither of them says a word. Castle starts to speak a handful of times, but stops himself when no words come. She extends her hand to link with his again, her fingers twitching and gripping intermittently between his, that contact helping settle him.

When she breaks the silence, resting her forehead on her knees, he watches a single salty drop trace a path down her nose until it falls.

"This explains how you found me." Her voice wobbles, but the steel wins out as she references her case, puts together the clues. "He had me laid out in that huge bed, dressed me in that white Victorian get-up. Virginal."

She draws out the first syllable as she lifts her head, finding a spot on the opposite wall. He grips her hand a little tighter, reminding her of that point of contact.

"He must have known what we've been-" her carefully neutral expression collapses in on itself, and a single sob escapes. Castle's arms ache from staying still, from not touching, waiting.

"Damn it." She swipes at the tears, and then presses the pads of her thumb and index finger tight into the corners of her eyes. Clearing her throat, she begins again, voice gone to gravel.

"He planned this to get between us; to ruin us."

Castle's blood boils, skin flaming with heat, and he scoots closer to her before he clamps it all down to speak.

"He told me years ago he watched us making love. I've swept the loft a dozen times since then just to make sure. He must have found some other way."

Kate meets his eyes, hers already red-rimmed and puffy, but she doesn't look away.

He takes both her hands, warms her icy fingers between his palms, as he continues.

"We'll search the whole building, across the street, down the block. We'll figure out where he's watching from. We'll find him, _them_. And I swear we will make them pay."

Her forehead nudges into his, the rest of her face blurring out of focus with the nearness and the tears filling his eyes. His voice trembles, but rings true.

"Kate, nothing can ruin us. Not them, not what they've done. I love you, and you love me, and in the end, that's all that matters."


End file.
